


a new broom sweeps the cleanest

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Banter, Carapaces, Domestic, Explicit Language, Found Family, Gen, Intermission (Homestuck), References to Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: Diamond Droog does a spot of spring cleaning around the Midnight Crew’s abode.Or, how the Midnight Crew got a new hideout.Written for theEclipse Zine
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	a new broom sweeps the cleanest

This place is a fucking dump, is what you got to say about the state of the hideout, and you say as much out loud to the lounging schmucks hanging out in the central room on the comfortslab, one hand resting irritably on your hip as you look around at all the mess. It's true that you're all hard men, men with pasts, men who have no truck with what most of the world considers civilised behaviour, but that doesn't mean that you have to be animals. And right now, you're looking at three of the biggest monkeys in the zoo, complete with shit flinging habits. Makes you sick.

It's fine, comes a stolid grunt from one of the couch’s inhabitants and your lip quirks into a sneer, because it ain't fine, ain't fine at all. Ain't in the mood to go around being your maid, boys, you snipe because that's true as much as the first thing you'd said, only to get Boxcars acting like he doesn't know what you're on about. He just groans, loudly and leans his head back to look at the ceiling. Well, what do you expect us to do about it then? Not like we can hire a dame to come in here and swing a duster around.

Wouldn't need to clean the hideout if we _exploded_ the hideout, chimes in a chirpy little voice. Hearts raises his hand and smooshes his palm over Deuce's entire face, shutting him up. Sorta. He’s still making complaining noses behind Hearts’ mitt. You shoulda expected that kinda interjection coming from the peanut gallery, that's what you're thinking to yourself but you soldier on all the same. Before you get the chance to weigh in on again how you think someone else around here out to be kicking in some weight on the whole domestic issue, Slick's voice impinges itself on your fucking consciousness. Won't say no if you decide to put on the right kinda fancy frilly duds to go with this urge to get things spick 'n span, Droog.

Funny, boss, you say blandly, after a moment of surging rage that lights up your pumper. Maybe you're the youngest out of the rest of them, but that doesn't mean you gotta take this shit. Your voice is cool but you ain't that great at hiding it when you're spitting mad; leastways Slick always seems to know. He grins horribly at you from his place on the couch, while Deuce is still squirming and complaining with Hearts' hand over his whole face. Real funny, huh.

I thought so, he comments and digs underneath one of his claws with a small, slim knife. Where does he hide all those blades. Who knows, except for Slick. It's a gimmick, because realistically it's not possible for one man to carry that many fucking pigstickers on him without any of them showing. A god damn mystery for the ages, and one you're not keen on getting to the bottom of. What's eating you, anyways.

I don't like living in squalor, you say coolly. You look around you, at the undusted architraves and skirting boards, and your lip curls up with undisguised contempt. The disgust you feel is a positive palpitation inside your thorax, throbbing away with displeasure at the uncivilised ways of your adoptive clutch. You make a point of mentioning to the room that this isn't what you agreed to.

Isn't it, Slick snipes back and surges up from the couch to come over and prod a rude finger into the underpinnings of your waistcoat. With a huff, you step aside and he makes a point of following you. He really is a fucking asshole, you don’t know why you put up with him.

You agreed to whatever the fuck I tell you you’re gonna do, Diamonds. And you fucking know it.

You make a thoughtful noise, and continue keeping ahead of him so he can’t jam another impudent digit into your belly. The other problem with Slick is, of course, that the next time he jabs you, it just might be with a knife. It wouldn’t be the first time. It’s a good thing you’re a slick hand with a needle and thread, as well as a pool cue. You hadn’t expected a knack with tailoring to be useful to more than just your wardrobe.

It’s not that bad, comes the rumble of Hearts from behind you as you leave the room, and you scoff acidly to yourself, not bothering to dignify that fucking foolish comment of his with a god damn reply. Sometimes you wonder why you don’t just leave, but there’s always something that keeps you coming around despite what would actually be easiest for you. At least they dress well enough. You’d really have to leave if they stopped wearing some sort of respectable suit on a nightly basis; you just wouldn’t be able to stomach being seen with them if they were badly dressed. A mobster you might fucking well be, but you’ve got some god damn _standards_. 

Coming to a halt outside of your room, you turn with a slight yet dramatic flare of your jacket to look down at Slick. As always, he stares up at you and sneers, like he was the one who was actually taller in this here equation of tallness measuring. 

Little prick. You’d hate him if you didn’t know better. 

What. Just a flat word falling from your lips tonelessly, but you think it’s enough to let Slick know your feelings. His lip curls, revealing jagged teeth - his sneer sure is getting a work out tonight. Your mug’s gonna stick that way, you keep making that face, is what you tell him. You pause, thoughtful as he swells up a bit with anger. Don’t know if we’d really notice, you’re ugly as it is.

This time, he does stab you and honestly? You deserve it. Talking back is one thing, but that comment was just uncivil. Grunting, you take the white-hot slice of pain through your forearm with equanimity and examine your cut sleeve with a sigh of annoyance. Really. You’d liked this suit, but it looks like you need a new jacket now.

You done, you inquire frostily.

Are _you_ done, he snaps back like you’re both somehow grubs or wigglers or something, even though you’d both come outta the clone tube as big as you are right now like a rational being oughta. It’s the only way to jive, you don’t know how anyone else goes through the whole baby business. You reckon it’s laziness, personally, but you got an irate boss in front of you to deal with so you shut down your internal philosophising and wait for him to do something. He’s got something ticking away in his cranium, you know the signs. By now, you’re real fucking familiar with all of his little ticks and ways, what they mean. You’ve made a habit outta knowing; you reckon by now you know him better than he knows himself. 

Slick draws his hand back, sliding it over the gleaming arch of his head and you wait for him to spit out what else is on his mind. 

Got a job tomorrow night.

Alright. You wait a beat and he doesn’t say anything more about whatever the fuck his beef is, so you open the door to your room and make to move inside. Since he ain’t explaining more, you assume it’s just another job like a lot of the other ones you’ve done lately. More stuff that means this den of squalor ain’t getting any cleaner, is what it really fucking means but you tuck your internal snarl down real good and tight and make sure it _stays_ fucking internal. Good night, boss.

He doesn’t say anything to your back, and surprisingly you don’t even hear a grumble when you gently shut the door behind you. Easing your jacket off your shoulders, you study the cut and blood staining in the sleeve of your shirt and shake your head a little as you hang it on its waiting valet stand. Good thing you wear all black. Sliding your suspender straps off your shoulders to fall around your hips, you sit down on your bed as you shrug off the shirt and settle into stitching it up with what’s in your housewife, pulling needle from canvas and letting out a deep sigh of irritation.

You don’t like mess. You don’t enjoy _effort_. And being the only one in the Midnight Crew who’s interested in maintaining your common domicile to even a barely acceptable minimum standard is putting you to way too much fucking effort. Even being pissed about the current state of affairs is taking more cash from your billfold than you want.

Something that was said tonight nags and pricks at you as you sew up your shirt, your jacket and yourself. You don’t know what it was, precisely, only that it’s important. That it’ll mean something to you - once you figure out what the _fuck_ it was. 

It’s later when you figure it out. You know you would, eventually. You’re a man who knows his mind - sometimes it just takes a while to get to the bottom of it. 

You decide to give the galoots you jive around with a chance to change their fucking tune, maybe start picking up their odiferous fucking walkstub-tubes. Wash a plate. You know, basic tasks of domestic hygiene that you’d have thought anyone coulda managed. That you should be able to expect them to do. You’ve made your thoughts known, if they’re wise they’ll start picking up their act a smidge.

And they don’t.

So you do something about it.

You did warn them. Ain’t your fault if they didn’t take it (and you) seriously.

Fingers almost pressed to your mouth, you inhale cigarette smoke and lean against the car decoratively as the other three act like they’re surprised to find the formerly derelict house you’d all been using as a hideout busily getting to the torrid affair of burning to the ground. Clubs is having the time of his life, obviously overjoyed to be so close to so much flame. Might want to stand back, you mention casually to the scene as it unfolds in front of you, and tap ash away from the end of your cigarette with a flick of your fingers. Deuce bought like a bale of nitrocellulose last week.

Slick doesn’t pause in the tantrum he’s throwing at the sight of the Crew’s hideout crumbling under the weight of its own destruction, but you jerk your head towards him where he’s currently stomping on his hat in a rage, catching Boxcar’s eyes. He sighs, but then lumbers over to pick up your mutual hierarchical superior (it’s just easier to have an acknowledged leader and fuck knows you don’t want the job) and hoist him over to the car, then stuff him inside it. None of the rest of them can save a thing, but you’d moved your best suits outta the crumbling heap days ago. You haven’t lost anything that you couldn’t afford to lose.

That’s not the same for the rest of them, but you don’t really care. Exhaling smoke, you flick your cigarette butt to the ground as Slick kicks at the windows of the car and grind it out beneath your foot.

There’s a nice place on the other side of town that I’ve been scoping out, you remark idly, dockside. Hearts grunts to show he’s heard you as he gathers up Clubs as well, and the remaining three of you pile into the clunker you’ve been using for a set of get-away wheels. Boxcar pretty much sits on Slick in the backseat while Deuce takes the wheel and you slip into the passenger side. You’re pretty sure everyone’s learned their lesson here, and you feel a warm glow of inner satisfaction as you point the turns out to Deuce, lighting another cigarette to soothe your nerves on the way. All’s well that ends well, and all that malarky.

The next hideout, you’re not the only one who does some tidying up, but Slick does stab you in the ribshell before you’re all moved in. Just so he can feel like he’s got the high ground to let bygones be bygones. You figure that’s a fair shake of the lamb’s tail, so - you let it go (like you always do).

No matter how you break it down, you’re a member of the Midnight Crew.


End file.
